


lessons in genre

by lilysaid



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-08 23:53:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11657301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilysaid/pseuds/lilysaid
Summary: Sherlock is suddenly convinced that everything John does is intolerably gay. I'd be lying if I said this were anything other than a "Sherlock and John discover fanfic" story.





	lessons in genre

 

_It is a joy to be hidden, but disaster not to be found._

_-Donald Winnicott_

 

The first exchange happens on a quiet Sunday morning. John is catching up on some reading when, after a time, he becomes aware that Sherlock has stopped fussing with his samples and is staring at him quite openly, which itself is nothing new, but his expression suggests John has done something unforgivable.

“Are you ever going to get dressed?”

John glances down at his dressing gown, which is pulled tightly to cover all but the smallest sliver of his chest, and cinched at the waist. “Well, I was about to get dressed earlier, but you interrupted me when you dragged me downstairs to cut off a piece of my hair for your rather unsettling collection. Remember?”

“Unsettling,” Sherlock scoffs. “We’ve all got hair.”

John goes back to reading. No point in responding. It’s true that John doesn’t typically lark about the flat undressed the way Sherlock does, but it’s Sunday morning, and they’re here alone.

“You know,” Sherlock continues with a sour expression, “D.H. Lawrence once saw John Maynard Keynes in his dressing gown, and was so disturbed that he spoke about it at length for years afterward. He referred to it as one of the great crises of his life.”

John lowers his newspaper in disbelief. “What. Sherlock, what are you getting at?”

Sherlock just gives a prim shrug.

There’s no point in responding. It’s just like Sherlock, a man who doesn’t even put on pants for the Queen, to try and dictate what John wears in the flat. And of course he won’t stop staring, an aggressive stabbing glare, because Sherlock’s methods are to push his way to what he wants. What John can’t understand is why at this moment, Sherlock wants John to change his clothes.

“Are you expecting someone?”

“Not particularly. But we could have a client, John, and then who would greet them?”

“Good question,” John says, eyeing Sherlock’s own dressing gown, thrown on over only a pair of pants.

He waits thirty minutes and goes upstairs to change.

*

John forgets about the incident until they’re on their way home from Bart’s a few days later. When they start out, Sherlock is happily clutching a box filled with more hair samples on his lap, but after a few minutes, he grows quiet, and eventually says,

“Some critics believe he found it even more traumatic than living in a police state.”

“Sorry?”

“Lawrence,” Sherlock says impatiently. “Seeing Keynes in his dressing gown.”

“This again?” At the moment, John is fully clothed in jeans and a black jumper. “Wait—more traumatic than living in a police state?”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, his face set in a familiar, impassive expression that he uses when he believes himself to be the blameless bearer of bad news.

“Well, then. If he was that rattled, I think it’s obvious he was suppressing some strong homosexual tendencies.”

“You would know.”

 John studies Sherlock’s face. “What’s wrong with you? Are you—have I done something to upset you?”

“Not unless you count lying about half-naked in the flat,” Sherlock says lightly, and John stomps down on the impulse to _apologize._

*

The next day, John waits for Sherlock at NSY, where Lestrade had asked them to meet him, but his friend never shows up and refuses to answer his texts. When John arrives home, he finds Sherlock at the kitchen table.

“Lestrade wants your help. Said you haven’t been responding to his texts?”

Sherlock doesn’t look up from his microscope. “Did they investigate the husband?”

“No,” John drawls out, with feigned patience, “The husband was actually murdered.”

“The wife, then.”

“Also murdered, two days after the husband. Sherlock, why don’t you just call Lestrade and see what it’s about.”

“Because you have yet to present any reason for me to assume this case is anything over a two or three.”

John sits down at the table and taps his knuckles on the surface. “Two bodies, Sherlock. And you know that’s not why Lestrade wants your help. I know you’ve at least seen his texts.”

Sherlock blinks twice, darts his gaze toward John for a moment, and then returns his attention to his microscope. The microscope’s light is on, casting his eyes with a beam that renders them transparent, scattered with flecks that swim in the colour of ice and sky. “Boring.”

But the declaration lacks its usual emphasis. One of the reasons Lestrade has asked Sherlock to step in is because of a new development: when Sally Donovan had returned to the crime scene, she had been attacked and almost strangled to death. She’s still in hospital, and while this additional unexplained attack would usually be enough to make Sherlock declare a crime at least a six, the prospect of helping Donovan is what keeps him glued to his microscope.

Of course he wants John to pry him away. John sighs and takes one more look at Sherlock’s unearthly eyes before saying, “So you don’t think this case is even a little intriguing? A killer who commits two very intimate murders, and then inexplicably tries to kill a police officer who didn’t even know the victims?”

“I’m supposed to find it puzzling that someone might wish to murder Sally Donovan?”

“Fine,” John says, feigning resignation. “I just thought you might enjoy it if Donovan were forced to admit she owes you a bit of gratitude, but you’re right; it’s probably not worth your time.”

“Oh, please,” Sherlock snorts. “Reverse psychology? Really, John.” 

John gives up, intent on fixing some supper, but by the time he opens the refrigerator, Sherlock is already sweeping toward the coat rack and snapping that if John is going to take the liberty of instigating investigations, then he should really learn to keep up.

*

John finds his own way home from NSY—without Sherlock, whose behavior has been erratic all day. As always, he’s thrilled to get his hands on the crime scene photos, but then he inexplicably suggests that John is flirting with Philip Frye, the young desk sergeant on duty, and over the remaining course of the afternoon, breaks his own preposterously high record for cruel remarks. Worse, he acts as though John has wronged him, and doesn’t even try to stop John when he pulls on his jacket and leaves him on his own.

And since when is Sherlock bothered by someone’s sexuality? John has the cabbie drop him off so he can walk the last several blocks to Baker Street. It’s a chilly day, perfect for a walk and a good think. For once, he feels like he’s closing in on a puzzle more quickly than Sherlock. Sherlock, who suddenly finds everything John does intolerably gay, and is driven to fury by it.

_He found it more traumatic than living in a police state._

Sherlock, who is possibly gay himself, and who has always seemed fine with Harry and with Mrs. Turner’s married ones, is handling his new conviction about John as though he’s discovered John has been getting off with Mycroft in his free time.

 _More traumatic than living in a police state._ And John had been expected to listen to Irene Adler’s breathy moans ad nauseum. _Traumatic. More traumatic than living in a police state._ Sherlock not getting his way—and since when is John’s devotion to shagging women _Sherlock getting his way_?—is a trauma? Christ.

*

“ _Slow_.” Sherlock declares when John arrives home. He’s already on the sofa, on his back as though he’s been there for ages even though his cheeks are still pink from the cold. “I’ve already solved the case. Well, part of the case. The only interesting part.”

John thinks it best not to speak.

Sherlock turns his head, already slipping into a pout. “You don’t want to know?”

“Go on, then.” John drops into his chair with enough force to get Sherlock’s attention.

Sherlock swivels and sits upright, pinning John with his gaze, deducing his mood and the causes behind it. “The second victim, Mrs. Miller, bears a striking resemblance to Sally Donovan. When she visited the crime scene, he obviously saw her and thought he’d failed to kill Miller the first time. That’s it. Disappointing, really, that the explanation is so dull. I solved it as soon as I saw the crime scene photos—was rather hoping for an internal conspiracy against Donovan.”

“What about the killer?”

“What about him?” Sherlock seems to know what John is going to ask, and is already working himself up for a fight.

“You know what. Who killed the Millers?”

“Boring! Some relative who stood to inherit money, obviously.”

“You don’t want to find out?”

“I said I’d investigate for the sake of Donovan, but now we know she isn’t in any danger, so what’s the point?”

“Are you serious?” John stares at Sherlock, who stares back, defiant, a standoff that lasts for a few seconds before Sherlock finally turns away and snaps,

“Fine. We’ll visit a few relatives tomorrow, and the one with the scratch marks is the killer. It’s so obviously spotted that even Anderson could accomplish the task—but very well, let’s put the best mind in London on the case.”

John sighs. “How about this?” he suggests. “Let’s make a game of it, yeah? Why don’t you see if you can deduce the correct relative on the first try. One deduction, one visit, and as little of your precious time wasted as possible. If you guess correctly, you can have as much of my hair as you want for your bloody disgusting collection, and if you guess incorrectly, you owe me an explanation for what’s been going on with you lately.”

Sherlock scowls, but his eyes are thoughtful, interested. “I like the game, but not your terms. I already have your hair; I’ll take a favor instead.”

“A favor.” As though John isn’t already at his service round the clock.

“Yes.”

“If you win,” John says, but Sherlock just laughs, a mean, joyless sound, and turns to stare out the window.

*

That evening, John has an email from Harry with the subject line “quite a fan club you’ve got,” and a link that he clicks with only a mild sense of caution. He knows some of the things his fans get up to—on a fairly regular basis, he and Sherlock find themselves cornered by one or two of them. The website has a commonly used photo of Sherlock at the top—in the hat, of course—and underneath, a list of titles. Story titles, looks like. John takes a sip of tea and clicks on one.

It’s not what he’d expected. It’s a story about John and Sherlock making a trip to the country, in search of a cottage to which they can retire. In the process, they bicker and laugh and solve a rather silly local murder. It could be one of John’s blogs, but for the level of detail and the fact the two of them have never lain awake past midnight, fingers entwined beneath the covers as they discuss home renovations. John reads over this scene a bit awkwardly—he can feel the rush of blood to his cheeks and ears—but overall, it’s a sweet tale.

The next one is extremely graphic, and he backtracks right away, glancing up guiltily to make sure Sherlock isn’t around.

There are more stories—about him and Sherlock and their life together, imagined variations on their cases, their relationship. The authors have done their homework. In the stories, Sherlock is Sherlock and John is John, but their relationship is characterized by something different to real life.

He skims a few more, chuckling nervously at their descriptions of Sherlock, and then finds one a bit more serious that catches his attention for first one paragraph, then another, and another. The story speculates on Sherlock’s return from the dead, and it’s not technically accurate. The author, safely anonymous, doesn’t know anything about Sherlock’s stupid waiter disguise or the conversation on the train. But the general _feelings_ are accurate—the loss, the loneliness, the aching regret and longing and how it had taken John far too long to get past them.

John’s pain is right there on the page, from the great wrenching in his chest he’d learned to live with, to the flat, bleak periods of darkness.

John reads until he realizes he hasn’t been breathing, and sucks in a great breath, fingers twitching on the arms of his chair. Christ, he’s been reading for nearly two hours.

These are things he hadn’t imagined other people would think about. And to see it detailed in prose, of all things—in vivid detail—he isn’t sure whether he feels supported or violated. Having Sherlock in his life has ruined and rebuilt him so many times, John sometimes doesn’t trust his own ability to calibrate a response. He only knows that it’s best to put some distance between himself and feelings he still doesn’t know how to manage, so he shuts his eyes and does the breathing his therapist had taught him.

“What is it.”

John opens his eyes and finds Sherlock twisted in his seat at the kitchen table, staring.

“It’s nothing,” he says, trying to sound as mild as possible. On the screen, the imagined version of Sherlock is pleading for forgiveness, his face pressed to John’s shoulder. Fictional John is stunned by the discovery of Sherlock’s tears, which would _never_ happen in real life.

It wouldn’t happen in real life, but John can imagine it, now that it’s being drawn in such detail: the pleasure of knowing Sherlock cares, the rare comfort of his body.

Sherlock is still staring, but John can’t stop glancing down the screen, one more look at the images that had forced him to stop reading: Sherlock’s mouth, trembling; John’s hands combing through dark curls; Sherlock turning rough, possessive. Christ. John shuts the laptop and sits for a few moments, until Sherlock has turned back to his work, before he unplugs the laptop and takes it upstairs with him for the night.

*

“Last night,” Sherlock says at breakfast, while they’re both sitting at the table in their pyjamas. John isn’t keen for him to continue this train of thought, but that’s never stopped Sherlock.

“Mm?”

“I’m familiar with your full repertoire of facial expressions by now, and last night.” Sherlock stops and frowns at him. “I’ve seen that expression before, but not for some time.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. It’s to do with me, and it’s not good.”

“Sherlock-“

“You were looking at your computer and thinking about my time away, when you believed me dead. Dwelling on it. You went to bed early, but hardly slept. And now, you’re angry with me for bringing it up.”

John takes a sip of tea. Until this moment, he hadn’t noticed his own anger. “You need a new case.”

“Oh, but we have one. The bet, remember? I’m going to find the Millers’ killer and win one favor, T.B.D.” He enunciates each letter with emphasis, playing the prat to make John smile.

“How’s that going?”

Sherlock sits up straighter and quirks his mouth. “It’s the nephew. Shall we go see?”

*

Sheldon Barnhill resembles his aunt, Mrs. Miller, so looking at him is a bit like looking at a male version of Sally Donovan. His face is framed in a mass of curly hair, with bone structure to rival Sherlock’s. He’s happy to speak with them, and for the first few minutes, John is convinced Sherlock has made a mistake—after all, Barnhill’s face is smooth and uninjured—but Sherlock is doing his unconvincing impression of a friendly normal bloke, ruined by his eagerness for the big reveal, which means he’s still working this angle.

Barnhill is naturally put off by Sherlock’s odd mania; he glances to John for reassurance every time Sherlock asks a question, until finally, Sherlock shouts, “For God’s sake! If John Watson possessed the answers to these questions, do you think I would be here? Now, if you can tear your eyes away from him for five seconds—no, never mind; you’ve ruined the fun of it. Just take off your jacket and let’s have a look at your wrists.”

It’s far from his usual finesse, but this is Sherlock when he’s in a snit: impulsive and inelegant. Naturally, Barnhill balks, so at Sherlock’s signal, John steps behind the kid and yanks his jacket down over his shoulders. As Sherlock had predicted, his forearms are covered in scratches.

“Brilliant,” Sherlock mutters darkly. “All for something dull like an inheritance. Come, John.” Sherlock gives Barnhill one last glower, shouts “I don’t care!” when John tries to suggest they wait for the police, and flings himself into a taxi with more zeal than he’d demonstrated in the entire case.

He doesn’t move entirely out of the way, and John crowds him in, finally displacing him onto his own side with a gentle elbow to the ribs. John isn’t even angry any longer; he’s genuinely baffled by Sherlock’s reaction to what should be a _marginally_ interesting case, particularly with all the attention Sherlock will get from the Yard for catching Sally’s attacker, which he would normally love and only pretend to hate. Instead, he’s sulking like an angry cat in the back of the taxi, glaring out at John from slitted eyes, and fairly freezing the air between them.

“You want to tell me what this is all about?” John says.

“Am I to believe you are serious?” Sherlock agitation does an upward tick. “You think I missed the way you were behaving toward Sheldon Barnhill, with the fawning and—and _pawing_. Honestly, John, I’m not going to bring you along on interviews if you can’t conduct yourself with a professionalism more befitting my reputation.

“I don’t think you have a very good understanding of your reputation.”

“You tore off his clothes.”

“His _jacket_ , and you told me to!”

Sherlock is silent for a moment. “Then perhaps you shouldn’t follow my instructions without thinking.”

John snorts at that. Of course Sherlock actually believes that John just follows merrily along without a thought.

“At any rate,” Sherlock says, “You should be careful.”

John is fairly certain Sherlock mumbles something after that, and John’s blood is already up; he’d love a fight.  

“I don’t know what exactly you want from me on this,” John finally says in his mildest tone. He can feel the rage radiating out from Sherlock’s rigid shoulders, and it’s just so disproportionate a reaction, even for Sherlock, for whom proportion is just another suggestion to discard, that John can’t help but add, “Other than confirmation of my total heterosexuality.”

Sherlock turns to sulk out the window. “You were right the first time. You know nothing about what I want.”

*

John strains his arms against his bonds. “Sherlock, are you awake? What did I say about waiting for Lestrade?”

A few feet away, somewhere in the dark, Sherlock begins to stir, finally. “John?” He doesn’t sound exactly right.

“What’s happened to you? Do you know today’s date?”

A pause long enough to make John uneasy, and then, “It was a walking stick, I think.”

John yanks at his bonds again before forcing himself to take a breath and then feeling around for the edges of the smooth plastic cord he’s been tied with. It’s not thin or pliable enough to hold, and falls free within a few seconds. Once he’s free, he unwinds the same binding from his ankles, and crawls to the general area of Sherlock’s voice.

His hand closes over a shoulder, which he follows to Sherlock’s elbows, bound tightly at his back in what’s got to be an excruciating position. John is abruptly furious at the treatment; Barnhill had really had it in for Sherlock. When he’s loose, Sherlock moans, low and pained.

“Bastard,” John mutters. He rubs Sherlock’s arms and shoulders, deep and efficient, until it seems as though Sherlock can move without pain, then moves his inspection to Sherlock’s head, where he finds a worrying lump on top near the back, sticky with blood. “Don’t try to stand up,” he says, moving to unbind Sherlock’s ankles. He can’t see anything, but Sherlock shouldn’t be fumbling around in his state.

“January,” Sherlock says.

“What?”

“The date? You said-“ He stops abruptly. 

“Bit of a headache?” John touches the side of Sherlock’s face, his palm cupping the rise of Sherlock’s cheekbone. 

“Mm.” Sherlock neither confirms nor denies the suggestion. It’s worrying that he doesn’t draw away or bat at John’s hands.

“Do you know where we are?”                  

Sherlock pauses. “Mrs. Hudson’s downstairs pantry, obviously.”

John spends the next few minutes checking his pulse and breathing, and then simply lingering with his hand on Sherlock’s arm. Sooner or later, Mrs. Hudson will come by, but John wants to examine Sherlock now, somewhere in the light. 

“I don’t suppose you know when Mrs. Hudson is due back.” There’s no answer, so John squeezes his arm. “Sherlock.”

“I feel sick,” Sherlock murmurs. He grasps for John’s hand, leans to the side, and vomits on the floor.

“Right. We’re getting out of here.” John squeezes his hand, nudges Sherlock away from the vomit, and begins feeling around for something he can use to pry the door open.

“Stop moving around,” Sherlock says, after John has broken a broom handle, bruised his left hand, and knocked over a shelf of boxed pasta in his quest to break open the door. “Mrs. Hudson will be home at four and we can call for her then.” He sounds plaintive rather than cranky, John makes his way back over to Sherlock, avoiding the sick, and settles next to him.

They sit together on the floor, John listening to Sherlock’s even breathing. He wants to reach for Sherlock’s hand again, take his pulse, but Sherlock’s outburst in the car has left him feeling defensive. In the past, Sherlock never cared how _gay_ it seemed when he invaded John’s privacy or personal space. It isn’t fair to suddenly introduce brand new rules that John somehow manages to break just by existing.

“Sherlock,” he says carefully. Sometimes it’s easier to talk about these things in the dark. “You do know I wasn’t actually flirting with Barnhill, right? I mean, you were just being dramatic because the case wasn’t interesting enough, weren’t you.”

Sherlock makes a low huffing sound and shifts against him, where they’re settled shoulder to shoulder. “I saw you think flattering things about his hair.”

He can’t help but laugh for a moment. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?” He chuckles again and nudges Sherlock’s shoulder with his own. “I was just _noticing,_ is all. He actually reminded me a bit of you. You’re not the only one in the world with a great bloody head of hair, Sherlock.”

“What is your _point_?”

John takes a deep breath. “I wanted to ask if you’ve seen anything on the internet lately. Something you didn’t like, that’s made you a bit sensitive.”

Sherlock goes perfectly still. “There are a lot of things I don’t like on the internet.”

“Right. But I mean something about us. You and me.”

“Gossip.”

“No, not gossip. Something else.”

“Honestly, John, what kind of doctor interrogates a concussed patient? Shouldn’t you be tending to my medical needs?”

John recognizes the deflection and is about to say so, but the front door slams shut and they shout for Mrs. Hudson until she frees them. A sequence of heated negotiations follows, ending with the agreement that John will be allowed to examine him in the bathroom where the lighting is best, and Sherlock will go to hospital only if John finds anything alarming.

It’s odd, having Sherlock so silent, listless where he sits on the loo as John moves his penlight in a careful line from side to side, watching the subtle changes of his pupils as they track his light. “Besides headache, are you having any other symptoms?” 

Sherlock blinks. “I was sick in Mrs. Hudson’s pantry.”

“Yes, you were.” John flicks off his penlight and crosses his arms, studying Sherlock. “I’m more interested in your motor skills, that kind of thing.”

“I’m concussed, you said so yourself. It’s perfectly normal if I don’t feel well.” For a moment, Sherlock seems as though he’s going to push John away and storm out, but he loses steam and quiets, slouching and letting his eyes fall shut. John takes pity on him and waits until he’s settled on the sofa again before he brings it up again.

“Do you remember what we were talking about earlier? In the pantry?”

Sherlock makes a disgusted sound. “Are you testing my cognitive functions or is this your clumsy way of bringing it up again?”

“No, it’s a rather straightforward way of bringing it up, isn’t it?”

“My head-“ Sherlock begins, but John stops him with a raised finger.

“Enough with that. You just made me read you all the comments on our blog about the Paddington decapitation. You can tolerate a short chat.”

“Hah.”

John sits back in his chair and crosses his legs, studying Sherlock to determine how to go about getting a response. Sherlock is right—it may not be on to interrogate someone after a head injury, but Sherlock has been riding him for weeks, and he wants to know why.

“You’ve seen the websites.” Sherlock’s voice is flat, observational. “And you’ve deduced that I’ve seen them, as well.”

“Right on both. And now I'm wondering if that’s why you’ve been so—“ He doesn’t know how to finish. Volatile isn’t quite right, because of course Sherlock is always volatile. This is different, because it has to do with their relationship, which they’ve spent years of obsessive, single-minded attention building without ever managing to talk about it.

Sherlock doesn’t respond. Instead, he adjusts the frozen peas John had put on his head and stares at the ceiling.

“Did you actually read them? The stories?” John’s pulse throbs in his throat at the memory of what he’d read. 

“Of _course-“_ Sherlock flings the peas across the room and the package splits open, spraying tiny green pellets everywhere before returning to his reclined position, eyes shut. “Of course I did. I read them all. I shouldn’t have done. It was supposed to be funny. Mycroft sent a link and we had a laugh, but now-“

John waits, but Sherlock doesn’t seem inclined to finish. “Now?”

Sherlock makes a furious sound and turns onto his side, facing the back of the sofa, his back a rigid line. He gives a tight shrug, but John knows what it means. The past several weeks make perfect sense now, the way Sherlock has analyzed John's every move and then punished him as though he's the one who had made it happen. They're going to have this out, but not right now. John gets out of his seat, knowing he's missed something important, and goes to fetch Sherlock some more peas.

*

“The obvious solution is for you to move out,” Sherlock says the next morning, the moment John comes downstairs. John stops, still wiping the sleep from his eyes, unforgivably vulnerable in his pyjamas. He’s tired from waking Sherlock at regular intervals.

“Sorry?”

Sherlock is already getting dressed to go out, shrugging on his coat and then reaching for his scarf. “It’s simple, John. Distance. When people see the distance between us, the talk will stop, and there will be less chance of us getting confused.”

“I’m not confused,” John says, heading for the empty coffee carafe. “You’re the one who’s concussed, and I’m not hearing a word of this until your head is right.”

*

He goes to Mycroft. Meeting with Mycroft is usually a last resort, but the situation feels rather desperate, and Mycroft is occasionally willing to part with useful information about Sherlock.        

"He's asked me to move out."

"Has he?" John can discern through near-invisible tells that Mycroft finds this tidbit of information fascinating. He's a Holmes; of course he likes a puzzle, particularly when it involves Sherlock.

He describes to Mycroft the conversation about the stories, and then the odd conversations about Lawrence and Keynes, and Mycroft listens in his usual impassive way. Then, after a long pause during which he seems to consider the entire matter, he makes a thoughtful sound. "I studied Lawrence in school, for a time—perhaps this is why Sherlock hasn't deleted it. Flattering." Mycroft quirks a smile similar to Sherlock's, and John rolls his eyes.

"I’m fairly sure this has more to do with those bloody stories you sent him.”

Now Mycroft sighs with impatience, as though he'd expected better from John. "Let’s remember that Sherlock is adept at connecting smaller details to the bigger picture. Lawrence also possessed particular views on friendships between men. He romanticized them, perhaps to a fault."

John doesn't like where this is going, but it's a fact of life that Mycroft, just like Sherlock, will lead a person to precisely where he wants them to be. “So, in this scenario,” he says carefully, “Sherlock is. . .”

Mycroft shrugs; a light, elegant lift of his shoulders.

It would be wise to clarify. To tiptoe around the actual words leaves far too much room for misunderstanding, but the words are too absurd for Mycroft Homes’ mouth, and too _much_ for John to hear. Then again, how much does Mycroft really know about Sherlock?

Mycroft stands and straightens his jacket, while John finally tears his gaze away and looks at the fireplace, suddenly breathing as though he’s just been running. Sherlock had once confessed to John by just how much Mycroft’s intelligence outstrips his own.  

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Mycroft says, and leaves while John is still trying to figure out how to breathe.

*

Sherlock is at the kitchen table when John returns, making notes with a pencil.

“Did Mycroft offer to help you find a new flat?”

“No, because I’m not moving out.”

“But he knows I’ve asked you.”

“Yes, that did come up.”

“You’re being unbearably smug, which means you feel that he sided with you in some way. But Mycroft has seen the stories and finds them even more unseemly than we do.” He glances up at John. “So he doesn’t share my view on the way to go about solving our little problem.”

“We don’t have a problem.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow, his face going hard. “We’ll see about that.”

*

“Still here, then?” Sherlock asks when he emerges from his bedroom the next morning, breezing past John and toward the refrigerator.

“Looks like.”

By lunchtime, Sherlock has texted John links to six available flats.

John deletes them all.

Sherlock strips John’s bed of linens and props the bare mattress against the wall. In response, John changes the locks and replaces the door to their flat with a keypad lock, the code for which he does not share with Sherlock.

Sherlock changes the code to an expletive-driven message. John ransacks Sherlock’s sock index.

The next time John is out for a pint with Lestrade, his friend insists on buying the first round.

“It’s the least I can do,” Lestrade says, giving John a clumsy pat on the shoulder. “Sherlock told me you’ve called it quits as flatmates.”

John grimaces and drinks the free beer.

 *

Sherlock has never been good at moderating himself. John really should have known the lock debacle would unleash Sherlock’s more dramatic tendencies. Still, when he discovers that Sherlock has gone after Barnhill on his own, he struggles to control his panic response.

It’s not that Sherlock doesn’t go off on his own all the time. But this is a case they’ve been working together, and not only has Barnhill murdered two people and nearly a third, but he’s demonstrated a personal dislike for Sherlock.

And now it’s after three in the morning and no one has heard from Sherlock since he followed a tip on Barnhill that came through the station’s anonymous line.

Of course it’s a trap. And Sherlock had _known_ it was a trap, but Sherlock gets off on catching people in their own traps. He and John have argued about this: Sherlock’s vanity, and how he’s willing to risk just to put an artful flourish on the end of a case.

John sits in his chair without his paper, telly off, just waiting. Only a fool would allow himself to be dragged into a game of one-upmanship with Sherlock Holmes the way John has. And certainly, Sherlock has already won the game, going by the fact that John has been up all night, miserable with a familiar dull, relentless worry.

When Sherlock returns, they’re going to have it out. It’ll feel good to shout at him, after a week of passive-aggressive silence. They’ll have a good row and that will be it with this nonsense about John moving out.

John drums his fingers on the arm of his chair. Now, if Sherlock would just come home.

The sock index had perhaps been a bit over the top. Sherlock reacts badly to having his private things touched. John usually has more control; however, he’d been furious over having to punch _get out cunt_ into the new lock every time he returned home. It’s John’s job to keep them from tumbling into uncontrollable chaos, but every once in a while Sherlock pushes the right buttons, and they’re right down in it, with John’s fury and Sherlock’s barely-disguised delight over finding John down at his level where they can forgo niceties and make a mess of everything.  

If Sherlock returns, they can forgo the shouting. John just needs him home.

*

When Sherlock returns home, he moves quietly into the flat and makes his stand at the fireplace, where he lingers with one elbow on the mantel, as though studying the wall. He’s been in a fight; he’s got a black eye and a bandage on his face that covers his left temple and part of his eyebrow. John has no idea what Sherlock is about to say, but if he knows what’s good for him, it won’t be anything about John moving out.

Instead, Sherlock clears his throat and says, “If this were one of those stories, this is the moment you would come to me.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes. Your concern for my safety would overwhelm your anger, and you would offer comfort in any way I were willing to accept.” Sherlock’s tone is sulky, flat.

“Ah. Of course I would. After all, those stories work on the assumption that Sherlock Holmes’ greatest longing is for me to touch him.”

Sherlock curls his hand, where it rests on the mantel, into a loose fist, and stares at it though it holds a great clue.

John drifts into the sitting room. Sherlock doesn’t need to tell him how the stories go. If this were actually one of those stories, he would have taken Sherlock’s face in his hands, delirious with relief, and kissed his face and mouth and the long, lovely stretch of his neck. And they both know it.

“And what would I say, in those stories, about you going off on your own without me?”

Sherlock glances at John, a quick moment of eye contact, before he turns toward the wall and braces both hand on                                                                                    the mantle. “Dull.”

Of course Sherlock thinks that part is dull. He probably doesn’t even know who bandaged his face. John moves toward Sherlock without consideration. This is how he behaves on the battlefield; he trusts himself to move forward without making a conscious decision. And Mycroft had been right; his life in London is a battlefield, and his body will always take him to Sherlock.

“It’s not _dull_ , Sherlock.” He reaches Sherlock and pins him with his hands over Sherlock’s on the mantel, feet spread outside Sherlock’s. “In fact, the _stories_ say you returning to me alive is a pretty bloody exciting topic.”

John presses forward with the last few words, closing in on Sherlock. Against John’s palms, Sherlock’s fists are balled against the mantel, his knuckles rigid with tension. Everything they’re saying is true: this is what people have written and read and believed in, even as Sherlock is trying to force John out of the flat.

John rests his forehead between Sherlock’s shoulders and feels his immediate reaction, a quick intake of breath.

“I want you alive, Sherlock,” John says, breathing in Sherlock’s warm, familiar scent. He tightens his grip over Sherlock’s fists, and is startled by another small sound from Sherlock. There’s no resistance; Sherlock hasn’t yet worked out what the point of this is, but he’s willing—for now—to wait and find out. “Are you hurt?”

John watches his hands as though they belong to someone else, as he eases Sherlock’s coat down over his shoulders and off, tosses it over the sofa, and then goes back to touching Sherlock, starting at his shoulders and then moving downward. Sherlock’s waist twists and flexes beneath John’s searching hands. Jesus Christ, what is he doing? Sherlock’s hips, when John moves lower, feel utterly foreign—foreign because what he’s doing here is wildly off-limits.

He can’t stop. This isn’t a medical examination; he knows Sherlock isn’t hurt. This isn’t exactly part of the game, but there’s certainly an air of one-upmanship to it. And why would Sherlock have been pushing so hard lately if he weren’t waiting for John to break?  

Sherlock is frozen beneath his hands. Other than the sound of his breathing, rough and shocked, he’s completely silent, and that alone is enough to make John drop his hands away from Sherlock and step back.

Sherlock is still braced on the mantel, his head bent low. His hair is curled over the nape of his neck, damp and wild. John cuts his gaze away. “Did you get him?”

Sherlock doesn’t respond for several long seconds, and then, in a low voice, says, “Not—no. I gave chase, but there were unexpected impediments.”

“Is that right?”

Sherlock turns, carefully, and stands upright, straight-backed. “My vision was obscured by excessive bleeding of the scalp.”

“You had blood in your eyes.”

Sherlock runs his hand over the front of his shirt as though just realizing he’s been relieved of his coat. “Yes.”

“So you run off on your own, put yourself in danger while I’m sitting at home, and then invoke the _stories_ to avoid hearing what I think about all that.”

“I shouldn’t have brought them up,” Sherlock says quickly.

John raises a finger, steady despite his racing pulse. “But you did. And you _know_ , Sherlock, how they always end.”

John certainly doesn’t believe Sherlock understands the point of the stories, but there’s a satisfaction in watching the uncertainty pass over Sherlock’s normally stoic face that allows him to retreat for the night without feeling that he’s lost anything.

*

The next morning, John can feel Sherlock’s eyes following him as he makes breakfast, checks his email, reads the paper. Since he doesn’t say anything about John moving out, John lets him stare. Eventually, Sherlock will reach his conclusions and carry on.

Sure enough, as John is drinking a second cup of coffee at the table, Sherlock drops into the seat next to John and says, “I’ve missed something important. He’s cleverer than I thought.”

“Barnhill?”

Sherlock scowls, and John gets a good look at his injury from the night before. A dozen sutures just over his eyebrow, no bandage. He gets a good close-up look, pleased when Sherlock doesn’t shy away. Every time he thinks about what he did to Sherlock last night, a queasy feeling slithers through his belly. “Yes, well. This is twice now, he’s knocked you over the head. He’s got a particular vendetta against you.”

“That’s become clear, thank you. It doesn’t matter. I’ve got everything under control.”

John lifts an eyebrow. “Your face says otherwise.”

Sherlock waves him away. “A slight miscalculation. He regained consciousness sooner than I expected.”

“Oh, is that all?”

“Yes. Now, if you don’t mind, pull up the Trackmaster app on your phone.” Sherlock sits back in his chair and shuts his eyes with a long exhale, as though John is the exhausting one. One finger taps lightly at the uninjured side of his forehead. He’s got a headache he doesn’t want John to know about.

“Funny, I don’t remember downloading that app.” But John is already unlocking his phone, because Sherlock has a way of seizing control of John’s devices without his knowledge. He locates and opens the app, which turns out to be a map of London with a small blinking green icon.

“I wanted to keep tabs on him while I find out more about his situation. I’ve missed something; it doesn’t make sense that he’s not fled or killed us when he had the chance.”

“He’s currently at a private residence in Norwood Green, so you can take something for that headache, have a lie-down. This will keep.”

Sherlock’s face hardens, but he doesn’t launch into a rebuttal, which means he knows John is right.

“Go lie on your bed,” John says. “I’ll be in with some Nurofen and some water.”

When enters Sherlock’s room, he finds it the same as always—dim, neat, heavy with the undiluted scent of Sherlock’s body, shampoo, potions and serums—and Sherlock on his back at the center of the bed. He’s on top of the covers, in a white vest as tight as any of his other clothes, and blue pyjamas made of slinky, slippery fabric that clings to the points of his hips and knees. His eyes are already closed.

“I’m fine,” he says as John sits on the bed and presses first the tablets into his mouth and then the glass to his lips.

“Of course you are. That’s why you’ve agreed to go to bed at noon.”

Sherlock’s eyes are pinched at the edges. John isn’t used to seeing him like this; he smooths the creases with his thumb, then draws a gentle path over the space between Sherlock’s eyebrows, and up to his hairline.

“The Nurofen will take effect in twenty to forty minutes. In the meantime, you’ll stay here and update me on Barnhill’s location.”

“Mm.” John tucks two fingers up against Sherlock’s wrist and counts the beats until he’s satisfied. “I’ve set it to notify us if he travels more than five miles from his current location.”

Sherlock’s mouth drops open a bit, as though he’s about to say something, then closes it, looking vaguely unsettled the way he always does when he’s surprised by John’s competence. John rolls his eyes and shifts his hand to rest just over the swell of Sherlock’s wrist bone. “I thought we might talk about what happened last night.”

Sherlock goes very still, as though just by mentioning it, John has him up against the fireplace again. “What do you want to say about it,” he breathes in a tone John doesn’t recognize.

“Well, first, you went after Barnhill without me.”

“He fancies you,” Sherlock says, staring at the ceiling. “It seemed less complicated for me to go alone.”

“He fancies me.”

“Yes. And he brought up the stories. In his opinion, you’re so far out of my league that the very idea is laughable. He believes I’ve used extreme means of manipulation to make you mine.” He snorts, but John sees through it to how deeply uncomfortable Sherlock is right now. He isn’t even looking at John.

“Sherlock.” John squeezes Sherlock’s wrist lightly. “It’s fine if it bothers you. The things on that website were bloody personal. Not just the bits about us, but about _me._ They knew things I’ve kept private. . .about when you were away.”

“It’s easy to deduce the effects of losing someone.”

 “Of course,” he says slowly. He’s having trouble speaking over the throbbing in his throat. “But Sherlock, do you—I mean, not for me, but do you feel those things at all, ever?” He stops. “I’m not sure what I’m even asking.”  

He’s asking about the stories where they can’t help themselves, where all John has ever wanted is Sherlock’s mouth, and his hand slides away in surrender when Sherlock twists away from the question and his long legs draw up, head bending to his knees.  “If you don’t know,” he says into the pocket he’s made of his curled body, “Then _why_ are you _asking_?” 

John touches the tip of one finger to the sixth thoracic vertebrae, prominent through Sherlock’s thin t-shirt. “I suppose it’s because my partner is a genius, and I trust him to figure it out.”

They should have talked about this before. Certainly before it got to this point, with John aching to cover Sherlock with himself—just spread himself out and dampen all of Sherlock’s dangerous instincts with his own body. He hadn’t even been aware of this deep, relentless wanting, but here it is—here _he_ is—just as the stories had said.

John draws the duvet over Sherlock, and then stands on appallingly wobbly knees. “I’ll just-”

“ _If,_ ” Sherlock interrupts, “If this were one of those stories. You would lie here with me.”

John pauses, nodding slightly as everything slides into focus. Sherlock, last night: _If this were one of those stories, this is the moment you would come to me_. It had been his own difficult way of saying _come to me,_ and now he’s saying _lie here with me_ in the most infuriatingly opaque way. It’s not like Sherlock to be so indirect.

John toes off his shoes and crawls onto the empty side of the bed. The duvet is cool on John’s side, warmer near Sherlock.

“What else would I do?” he asks, very quietly.

The covers shift as Sherlock unfolds, straightening his spine. The back of his head is suddenly close enough for John to smell the pine and rosemary of Sherlock’s shampoo. If John moves just a few inches forward, his face will be buried in it.

“You ascertain whether it’s permissible to touch me.” The low rumble of his words goes through John’s body like brush catching fire. There’s no reason for it, but it does.

“Of course. And I’d know exactly how to do that, wouldn’t I.” But John is already drifting closer, giving in and pressing his face to the back of Sherlock’s neck. He noses at the soft curls, startled by his own sharp intake of breath, as though there’s something shocking about having his mouth resting on the warm skin just under the hairline. But it _is_ a shock, as is the faint shiver that takes Sherlock’s body—a reflex, merely a reaction from a sensitive area, but this is _Sherlock,_ and John marvels at the rare understated response.

He settles with his lips just touching Sherlock’s nape. “What else?”

“You hold me close to you.” Sherlock sounds stiff, reluctant, the way he does when John forces him to issue an apology he doesn’t truly mean, but he keeps on, his voice resting just above a whisper. “And--worship me with your hands. That’s what they say, John.”

He’s not editorializing. John can’t deny that this is how the stories go. There’s no other way to describe what happens.

John lies very still for a moment. Sherlock is doing the same, hardly breathing. If John doesn’t do something in the next few seconds, it’ll seem like he’s refusing, and Sherlock will be furious about this rare bit of exposure.

“Ah, that’s right.” John pulls Sherlock closer and with his fingertips, begins a slow path over the gorgeous planes of Sherlock’s belly, a slow, light circle. His belly, Christ, the place where he’s softest and most vulnerable. John strokes at the light hair just beneath his belly button, and Sherlock’s body, as it turns out, naturally evokes a certain degree of worship in John’s hands. It even feels like Sherlock is leaning into it, though John has him held fast, sandwiched between his body and where he’s brought his leg over Sherlock’s.

Worship, it turns out, also involves a slow delivery of kisses over Sherlock’s throat, shoulder, and during one heart-stopping mis-step, the curve of his jaw. When he ends the slow exploration with his hand, he tugs at Sherlock’s hip and brings him back even closer, his own hips angled so Sherlock fits against him but can’t feel how hard he is. Of course he’s hard; this is unprecedented between them. Sherlock is practically trembling, and why wouldn’t he be affected by something this monumental?

It’s very easy to press forward until there’s no room between them, and press a kiss just beneath Sherlock’s ear. “What next?”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but John can feel him thinking.

“Sherlock.” Whispered right into Sherlock’s ear, followed by a soft touch of tongue. He can feel the increasing tension in Sherlock’s body. “Tell me what comes next.”

“You _know_.”                     

“No, I don’t. Tell me,” he breathes. More tongue.

“My mouth,” Sherlock gasps, as though he can’t believe he’s said it.

John presses his forehead to Sherlock’s shoulder and makes a low, rough sound—the first of this type from either of them, but he can’t help it. What _about_ Sherlock’s mouth?

John is abruptly very uncomfortable: too warm in his clothes, aching between his legs, impatient. Of course Sherlock can’t do this like a normal person. Instead, he needs a game. The thing about this game is that it _feels_ like permission. It feels like an overt request from Sherlock, but all this touching is playing out in stark contrast to the accusations Sherlock has leveled at him over the past few weeks—the disdain, suspicion, and the repeated attempts to remove John from the flat.

“I remember,” John says. “In the stories, I’m very keen on your mouth.”

“Always.”

With the tips of his fingers, he moves up Sherlock’s chest, over the line of his jaw, and comes to rest at the swell of his mouth.

“Here we go then, he says, and slides two fingers inside. He strokes lightly over Sherlock’s tongue and Sherlock’s mouth closes in like a soft, wet fist. He’s heaving in John’s arms, biting lightly at his fingers, laving them with a great flexing tongue. “Oh my god,” John whispers. He can’t watch anymore.

But he can trace his thumb over Sherlock’s bottom lip, and feel the way Sherlock’s mouth tries to draw it in, as though there isn’t any part of him it wouldn’t welcome. He can hear the wet, sucking sounds of Sherlock’s mouth, all at once arousing and absurdly ostentatious, like Sherlock himself.

“What’s next, Sherlock?” John reluctantly withdraws his fingers, which Sherlock tries to follow with his tongue and then catch with his teeth.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything at first. His restraint is remarkable, because John can _feel_ the live-wire excitement in Sherlock’s body. Yet when he finally responds, his words are cool and clipped, as though he’s walking John through a particularly boring case. “You can’t wait. That’s always how it goes. You’re gagging for it. You’ve never wanted anything the way you want me.”

The unbelievable cheek. But John still finds himself drawing up behind Sherlock, breathing in the smell of his skin, so hot and close that John has to bite down on the sound that wants to tear its way out of him. “I sound a bit of a disaster.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees breathily. “That seems to be the general consensus.”

“Mm. But I did a _lot_ of reading, and I seem to remember the ‘general consensus’ about what it is _you_ want, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s response, a ragged exhalation, becomes a moan when he feels John tug his pyjamas down. John uses his foot to push them the rest of the way off, and then he’s gently rolling Sherlock onto his belly, removing his own clothes, and fitting himself against Sherlock’s back, mouth at the nape of his neck once again. He’s on top of Sherlock, his cock bumping between them, and if Sherlock is going to protest, this is where it would happen, but instead, Sherlock just spreads his legs and reaches his arms up above him to grip the edge of the mattress. When he turns his head to the side, John surges up and takes his mouth in a kiss that’s mostly tongue. The angle is awkward, and Sherlock’s response is stunningly desperate, sucking as eagerly at John’s mouth as he had his fingers.

 John is suddenly, perilously close to orgasm. He’d had the vague, deluded idea that he might end up fucking Sherlock, since one blind, tentative step after another has brought him this far, but he’s not going to make it, not with Sherlock kissing with the enthusiasm he usually reserves for particularly exciting murders, not to mention the ride he’s getting as Sherlock ruts against the bed, shoulders flexing gorgeously, skin hot and damp all over. They may as well be fucking; the bed sounds like it’s being taken by an earthquake, not anywhere near appropriate for anyone with downstairs neighbors, but John can’t stop. When Sherlock tears his mouth away and sobs into the sheets, his hips stuttering out of rhythm, John grinds into his arse and lets it take him so hard that he forgets to care about decorum, the sounds he’s making, or the rules of Sherlock’s little game.

He remembers all those things as he starts to come down from it, when he starts to feel a bit weird about having his dick pressed to Sherlock’s arse while it’s feeling so sensitive, and the fact that his fluids are all over Sherlock’s back. He lifts himself and hesitates. To wipe Sherlock off would just draw more attention to it.

As carefully as he began, he climbs off of Sherlock, whose back is still heaving with exertion, long limbs flung everywhere. He wishes Sherlock would roll over, let him see his face. As inscrutable as he can be, John can always glean _something_ from a careful examination of Sherlock’s expression.

“What.” He clears his throat and tries again. “What happens next, Sherlock?”

At this, Sherlock does roll over, t-shirt rucked up high, otherwise gloriously nude. His eyes move over John with their usual quick assessment. “I don’t know why you have to keep asking, John. You’ve read them yourself,” he says, though not unkindly. His mouth is red and swollen from their kissing. “You stop dating all your idiotic women, and we keep doing this. I like the ones best where you skip the little identity crisis.”

“Right.” John lets Sherlock stare at him a bit longer, fighting both the urge to cover his genitals and to smile.

“ _What_?” Sherlock asks sharply.

John shakes his head and leans in slowly, encouraged when Sherlock doesn’t draw back, but raises his face for the kiss John gives him, softly, on the mouth. “This just seems a bit of an about-face, doesn’t it? Have you forgotten that you’ve spent the past month furious with me for what you referred to at one point as ‘ostentatiously homosexual behavior.’ And I believe that was when I’d just kept you from being hit by a cab.”

“You manhandled me in public,” Sherlock says. “But I can see where there may have been mixed signals. It’s possible that I may have overreacted to the stories.”

“You don’t say.”

“I tried to convince Mycroft to take them down,” Sherlock admits, his hand creeping onto John’s thigh, which he strokes lightly. “They made me miserable. I couldn’t delete them.”

“Mm.” John shivers when Sherlock pets the hair on his thigh ever-so-softly. He hadn’t known Sherlock could be like this.

“So are you going to keep kissing me, then?”

“Are you going to keep making me guess about what you want?”

Sherlock tugs at his wrist. “Only as long as you keep guessing correctly.”

“All right then,” John says, and lets himself be pulled back in.


End file.
